The new grass rising in the hills, br the cows loitering in the morning chill, br a dozen or more old browns hidden br in the shadows of the cottonwoods br beside the streambed. I go higher br to where the road gives up and there's br only a faint path strewn with lupine br between the mountain oaks. I don't br ask myself what I'm looking for. br I didn't come for answers br to a place like this, I came to walk br on the earth, still cold, still silent. br Still ungiving, I've said to myself, br although it greets me with last year's br dead thistles and this year's br hard spines, early blooming br wild onions, the curling remains br of spider's cloth. What did I bring br to the dance? In my back pocket br a crushed letter from a woman br I've never met bearing bad news br I can do nothing about. So I wander br these woods half sightless while br a west wind picks up in the trees br clustered above. The pines make br a music like no other, rising and br falling like a distant surf at night br that calms the darkness before br first light. 'Soughing' we call it, from br Old English, no less. How weightless br words are when nothing will do.